of princes and thieves
by Cracker-nin
Summary: "In a city where the obscene wealth of the few means the absolute destitution of the many, there is no space for innocence any more than there is space for heroes. Haruno Sakura has never been much of either." UchiSaku, AkatSaku, SakuMulti. And a bunch of gratuitous violence. Assassin!AU


Disclaimer: **entirely applicable. **

Inspiration: **Assassins Creed (ii). that game that fucking game i cannot. it swallowed three days of my life and then mocked me with it's completion and loss, dammit. i'm not plagiarizing per se – the things used in it and here are, after all, real things. the parkour is learn-able, throwing knives and hidden-blades actual weapons (and actually majorly badass suck it Templar scum); kind of sort of Robin Hood legends, but that's obvious. and will probably be joked about at some point; i also listened to the Assassin's Creed soundtrack quite a lot, and it really helped me set the scene in my head - if you do well planning out stories when you listen to music, like i do, then i really recommend it. even if what you're writing is completely unrelated, i think it's just inspiring to listen to. yeah.**

Canon you should keep in mind/Headcanons of mine that relate/Basically Things to Note:** Konoha has a corrupt government (****Mitokado Homura is, canonically, a member of Konoha's Council (the old dude with the weird hair). And a stuffy jackass by default, amiright)****; Konoha has nobles with extremely douche-y tendencies and superiority-complexes included; canon is a sexist universe in general (not expressly, it's not a focus, it's not mentioned as something to overcome – it just Is Expected And Is, and that kind of makes it worse); there're no shinobi in this AU – no chakra, no jutsu. just lack of sense; think 14****th**** century if you must have a basis, which i actually don't. good start, kid, good start.**

Warnings:** people who're uncomfortable with swearing make me uncomfortable because i don't have a filter like i've tried so that's a thing; violence. that's central, we'll see how graphic; general law breaking, aw yiss; switches of tense and PoV that might give you whiplash idk it's just how it came out i'm sorry have we mentioned that i am not the brightest.**

…

_Holy water_

_cannot help you now_

_thousand armies _

_couldn't keep me out_

…

There was always something altogether _invidious _about crowds.

Possibly it was the musky stifle of the smell, or the heat, or the clamouring noise that seemed to use the ears as a route to beat the brain while covering the things of any importance, or maybe it was just the uniquely disconcerting form of isolation that came with being alone in a mass of talk and movement. Or perhaps it was an occupational type of thing, a need for personal space on the aside from knowing that, for instance, the lady in violet that just bumbled cheerfully into you could have just as cheerfully shanked you in the gut.

Who could say.

Of course, it could be the grating yells of the preachers that flocked to populated areas like flies to an exceptionally gullible carcass.

_Invidious._

_Yes_, it was central district territory and, _yes,_ they told news to a largely illiterate population – and that was nice of them, it was; how else would anyone know about the week's most recently damning and totally-legit-seriously-see-I-have-a-bell harbinger of the Apocalypse and panic accordingly? – but, for the love of the gods, they might've outclassed the city guard (which is, admittedly, not saying much) with the invention of a radar for near-by criminals by the way they chose that exact moment to go on, and on, and _on_.

Really, you come along to the main square to lurk in wait for a mark, and get the charming reception of a chubby old geezer squawking on about Eternal Torment and Agents of Lucifer and the Destruction of this and that and _bah_. Apparently if you kill a few uppity politicians everyone suddenly gets sniffy.

_The city will crumble into dissolution_, he says; _Sickness and disease will sweep the lands into chaos_, he says, and says it as though entire apartment blocks aren't coughing blood and confined to beds ridden with the pestilence that started it while the funds for cures pay for noble banquets; _Demon-kind will come to power,_ he says, as though we don't kiss the boots of those who murdered their brothers to climb the corpses to _power_ only to watch them pile up through their reign-

Dry wooden post splinters quietly beneath nails. Inhale through the teeth, hold it, release, force the locked body to relax. Casual. Unobtrusive.

Unnoticed.

Oops, this was upsetting. Oops, lucky you, Mister Mitokado.

_Where the hell _are_ you, Mister Mitokado?_

What would a festival be without the guest of honour? A person of importance to cut a ribbon or make a speech or hand a prize or be generally schmoozed over from all directions. And it happened, coincidentally, that this person of importance, among silk-tied politics and fawning of his very own, beneficed a drug cartel that hooked, and then continuously sold to street children in exchange for various services. Pool cleaning was a happy assumption to make, but then were the reports – the cries – of little sisters in the alleyways outside of brothels, and…

A scowl is swallowed by the darkness of a thick, pale hood_. And I wish that was the worst report_.

Such wonder is society. _Oh well._

Shouldering the post, a gaze follows the height of it up to the mismatched fabric triangles hung from string that send it looping to others placed throughout the plaza, turning the sky to a crystal blue canvas stitched and splashed with criss-crossing patches of bright colour that bend gently with summer winds, carrying jeers and sizzles and smoke-sweet carnival scents. The watcher wonders absently what everyone would do if the small, lonely figure in pale rags walked up the yelling guy on the crate and hit him in the face, as frantic warnings about the Prince of Death and his evil, dastardly plotting to bring this picture-perfect city to its bloody knees just made it over the heady atmosphere.

It was flattering, it really was.

…

…

Sasuke hated festivals.

Hated.

Not 'disliked.'

Not 'was not fond of.'

No, no, no – Sasuke _disliked _noise and flamboyance. He _was not fond of_ social gatherings and low-class civilians-slash-people in general.

A place running rampant with a surplus of all of these wretched things combined equalled, quite simply, _severe psychological fucking hatred_.

The smell of incense burning within hanging pots met with the cloying sweetness of produce from various stalls to form a heavy blanket over the ever-present musk of the closely packed, unclean bodies of the lower-classes. It made him want to retch, and the loud colours were giving him a migraine. Taxing to have to stand straight-faced and upright at his post before the private building when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and slice his way through the inane chattering vendors and obnoxious stands until there was quiet, and he could go back to the Uchiha Mansion and do the same to some practice dummies. In _silence_.

It was beyond his comprehension why his father insisted upon all members of the clan being actively involved in mundane efforts of law-enforcement – their family had run the Konoha Royal Guard for generations, for gods' sake.

_Annoying. _

Making matters worse was the way his brother, parallel to him at the other side of the arched doorway, stood aloof and content while he watched the festivities with something that might even have been _alertness_. Better though than Madara and Shisui, both of whom had given up all pretence of professionalism and had leapt into the rabble without even pretending to hear their assigned watch stations, and were spending their time at the rigged hoop games and within clusters of giggling courtesans intermittently. _So annoying. _

Sasuke locked his jaw to stifle a huff and locked his arms to stifle the urge to impale the thrice-damned town crier who had been screaming ignorance about devils and crime for almost an hour.

_No one takes this long to get ready to make one pointless speech to a bunch of mouth-breathers_, he thought. _Such a waste of my time. _

"Otouto, your eye is twitching."

"I know."

"It is quite disconcerting."

"I don't care."

Briefly considering not to out of spite, Itachi reached out to smoothly prompt an inebriated man in the opposite direction before he could collide with Sasuke, and consequently bring disembowelment upon himself. Sasuke's hand, which was indeed going for his katana, instead gave the befuddled civilian a very crass gesture while muttering profanities about his ancestors.

Rather than let out a long-suffering sigh, Itachi, being Itachi, dropped his eyelids infinitesimally. _Always so sour,_ he thought, and found himself overlaying images of a rosy-cheeked little boy grabbing onto his leg with pudgy, sticky toddler hands on top of the embittered teenager beside him now. The slight loosening of one shoulder counted as a sigh.

Giving up on trying to distract his little brother form dreams of slaughter for the moment, the elder Uchiha went back to people watching, which he admittedly did enjoy, and making sure that Madara and Shisui refrained from doing anything that would put them in the awkward position of having to arrest themselves, which, under his unforgiving eye, had happened several times before.

By the time the obnoxious brass horns bleated the oh-so-eagerly-awaited arrival of Mitokado, Sasuke had fairly cracked a knuckle with how hard his fists were clenching, Shisui was dazedly face down in an apple barrel and Itachi was no longer having to feign the boredom in his expression. So focused was he on looking focused, he almost didn't catch the same lumbering drunkard from a while ago, who had seemed unable to recall directions stretching more than five steps from his current position, as he grew so startled by the sudden noise that he _charged_ toward them-

Only to slam into a slight figure that was crossing quietly between the two and send them, in turn, slamming into the Uchiha. Shock caused the three to remain still as the crowd descended into oblivious, anticipatory murmurings about the coming delegate and the drunk seemed to remember the function of feet and skitter away as fast as his wobbling legs could carry him (and end up in a prone sprawl in the dirt after face-ramming the side of a house, to which, unknowingly, the three blinked at in perfect synchronicity).

Apparently remembering himself, the pale-clad figure hurried upright- or would have, if Sasuke hadn't remembered his own self and, cutting off the, "Ah, pardo-", shoved the civilian off of him as if to ward off infection.

"You had better watch your _step,_" he snapped, straightening the crumpled leathers of his uniform.

The boy caught himself.

He did not finish the apology.

Itachi noted the many layers of material, greys and off-whites with slips of red, that seemed to stuff out the oddly small person like woollen packaging over something breakable, as well as the drooping hood that obscured their face but for a pale chin that looked, as well, strangely delicate. He almost frowned in bemusement. The stranger was still quiet after Sasuke's barb, which Itachi thought to himself was a wise cho-

"Yeah." The voice from the hood was low. "Yeah, I'll do that."

Somewhat effeminately pitched was the sound, which let Itachi peg the unlucky person as a young boy with a poor family that couldn't afford proper clothing (possibly merchants, judging by the decent quality of material - perhaps without storage space for many clothes, hence the layers), and lost all miniscule interest. Sasuke was almost growling at the insolence, causing Itachi to roll his eyes and cuff him lightly in the forehead to stop any notions of picking a fight with a commoner, just as the esteemed Mitokado Homura swept across the make-shift stage with a regal-air, smiling graciously at the somewhat dutiful applause he received merely for doing so.

Neither brother noticed the frustrated downturn of the mouth under the hood.

"Anyway," said Itachi, turning back, "be sure t-"

The space was empty, and the swirling colours of the crowd left no trace of white.

…

…

_Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ thought the assassin, because it was a strong representation of their situation in general.

_Fuck publicity_, they thought, and then, _This means I could've actually smacked that fucking crier._

_Fuck_.

One of the most opportune points at which to get your mark was in the space between Point A (his quarters) and Point B (the public stage) – every amateur murderer knew that. To the unprepared, the mere distraction caused by their own movement and footsteps was ample to make it basically fool proof. Unless, of course, while on your innocent way to do so you were _literally thrown into a fucking guard station_-

Deep breath. Calm. Blend.

_It's just turning out to be a bad day_.

As the assassin made their unassuming, slow path towards the front of the gathered audience (most of which were too busy trying to look like model citizens in front of the Person of Importance to respond with more than a glare and a muffled cuss or two) they soothed themselves with images of stabbing that uppity little snot with the stupid chicken-ass hair right in his grouchy face. It was centring, and provided an alternative from listening to Mitokado drone on about how _he_ appreciated that _they _appreciated his fine work for the city, and then outlining once more why they should.

He had to go home at some point, and there would come a time there where he was without servants or guards, and then, _snap_, it-

"-to my great sorrow that I must part to Sunagakure on such short notice to you all, but it is with this city's best interest at heart that I partake in this long and arduous journey…"

Smudge of paleness in the vast crowd, the line of a white head pricked just slightly.

_What_.

The urgency in the tip-off suddenly made an irritable amount of sense - there was no way a noble could be gotten at in the middle of open, flat desert land surrounded by armed escorts by the tens - not by a single assassin. _It would have to be tonight…_

_Dammit_.

The press of metal to wrist was cool and familiar.

_It would have to be now. _

The quiet boots pressing forward were sure.

…

…

At his station, Shisui was miming suicide in a myriad of different ways. Sasuke and Itachi, the latter more warningly than the former, were watching because it gave them inspiration and took their minds off of the baritone warbling from the stage. Neither even wanted to know where Madara had wandered off to.

By the time the ruckus reached their ears, it was already too late.

For a few stalled seconds, the scene before them did not compute. Panic was spreading through the gathered civilians like a rippling pathogen as it gained in mass and in volume – originating from the stage. The stage itself, set with a heap of white fabric drooped_- crouched,_ cat-like, on top of the collapsed form of Mitokado Homura, one gloved hand at his throat as though tending gently to a patient's pulse. When the hand came away, Uchiha-sharp eyes caught the scarlet blood from across the courtyard.

By the time they had taken a step, set hands to hilts, the figure in white was vaulting from view.

Chase was made impossible by the masses of terrified townsfolk streaming in the opposite direction, desperate in their need to escape, shoving the guards back like some hysterical tide. Itachi had to grab his spitting brother by the neck to prevent him forcefully mowing them down in his pursuit.

By the time the hustle had dispersed (fifteen seconds at most, Itachi catalogued, not truly enough time to-), there was no trace but the gently expanding pool of red beneath the ex-councilman's cooling body. And the assassin had vanished.

Again.

…

…

Four chimneys away, the source of diplomatic anguish was fairly skipping from the rooftop to rooftop.

A good day after all, it had turned out. Stealth was the only thing that stopped them from whistling while they essentially _pirouetted_ around an unstable collection of shingles.

He had _apologised._

While he lay with a blade through his neck, swallowing the blood from his own throat, he had looked into the shade of the hood above him and he had that said he was sorry. _And dying men don't tell lies._

The assassin liked when they did that. It was grounding. It may even be enough to renew faith in humanity - but then, did it make them better or worse, that they could see what they were doing was hideous, even as they continued to do it? Cloaked shoulders shrugged, hastily dismissing the philosophical route the mind was venturing down. _Therein lies madness._

Regardless, it may well have been the highlight of the job, the rep-

"I'M GOING TO _FIND HIM_, NI-SAN. I'M GOING TO FIND HIM AND I'M GOING TO FUCKING GUT HIM WITH HIS OWN GODDAMNED SWORD."

The distant voice caused the lauded victim of the threat to pause.

"I'LL HAVE HIS HEAD ON A _STICK. _ MARK MY WORDS. JUST YOU FUCKING _MARK_ THEM. I'LL RIP HIS FUCKING HANDS OF AND MAKE HIM FUCKING _EAT THEM_."

The raging words seemed to dissolve into raging noises of general antipathy, and what sounded like the brutal annihilation of a market stall or two, and, okay, no, now _that_ would be the actual highlight of the job. When the hood was flipped back, it revealed a satisfied half-smirk to the empty rooftops, and, shrugging off the thick white over-layers to stow in one of the many rooftop niches at convenience, pale locks of pink to the ebbing sun.

When the assassin dropped lightly into an alleyway, a slight laughter, light and easy– feminine, was spilling, careless, from her lips.

"Share the joke with an old veteran, won't you, my dear?"

The assassin snapped around-

-and was met with the city's coat of arms emblazoned across an armoured chest and, above that, smirking eyes of deep, Uchiha red.

_Nope,_ thought Sakura. _Definitely a bad damned day._

…

_and no rivers_

_and no lakes_

_can put the fire out._

_i'm gonna raise the stakes_

_i'm gonna smoke you out._

…

**well. that could be anyone.**

Psst:** i'm sorry okay i've always been really monumentally terrible at starting stories like that's why i haven't written all the noise going on in my head because it'd be like, "Yeah, okay, here's some basic backround information you got that good now let's jump right into an angst-scene that my head actually can stay on long enough to flesh out yep yep," and you're not allowed to do that; so yeah this is basically a prologue, i think, just to get a general feel and stretch idc it was fun as hell; lyrics sandwiching the text are from **_**Seven Devils**_** by Florence & The Machine; oh and the original artwork on the cover was submitted by shihou on pixiv, but i did edit it a bunch out of early writer's block.**

Things em has learned in the time spent writing this: **math is a way to communicate with Satan an nothing more need be said about it; GCSEs can go fuck a duck; Rise of The Guradians is actually a cinematic masterpiece and if you disagree you're wrong i'm not sorry (also, it's profits are tanking and we need a sequel so if you could go bless yourself/family/neighbours/countrymen by going to watch it then that would be super and really such a big deal i'm not phrasing it correctly but wow please so pretty).**

(Unrelated) Recommendations: **wow let me thi- go play Assassin's Creed please. or fund RoTG neither of which are chores come on. **

**so yeah i have a vague idea of what to do with this but i don't know. i feel kind of swishy about it, so i might just let it gather dust, i am so completely not sure. gah.**

**inspire me maybe? **


End file.
